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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28568784">The Blizzard</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/waytooshy/pseuds/waytooshy'>waytooshy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Frozen (Disney Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Elsanna Secret Santa (Disney), Elsanna Secret Santa 2020 (Disney), F/F, Incest, POV Second Person, Step-Sibling Incest, plot progression past to present and back through tense shifts - read carefully, secret santa gift</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 03:55:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,272</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28568784</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/waytooshy/pseuds/waytooshy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Every year, you break the promise you made to yourself and come back to that dreadful house, that dreadful family, that dreadful girl.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anna/Elsa (Disney)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>49</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Blizzard</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fruipit/gifts">Fruipit</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story was written as an Elsanna (Sudden) Secret Santa 2020 gift for Fruipit.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You don’t love her.</p><p>It’s breaking dawn, and the first, timid rays of sunshine are falling apart into twinkling beams through the frosted pane of your window. You trace your fingers where the light touches her skin, right over the dusting of freckles at the base of her shoulders. She stirs slightly in her sleep, but only to let out a content sigh as she burrows her face deeper into your old favorite pillow. You chance a bolder move and brush a strand of auburn hair away to expose the nape of her neck, then in some odd burst of affection lean down to place a ghost of a kiss right over the beauty mark there.</p><p>You don’t even actually like having her around.</p><p>You look back at the window and think of the storm. For weeks they had whined everywhere–no snow for Christmas, and yet there you were yesterday evening, sat at the awfully quiet family table, eating the dinner you only pretended to enjoy out of courtesy when the lights in the entire house went off and the placeholder Christmas music died, and the only thing you could see and hear outside was <em>it</em>.</p><p>The blizzard.</p><p>You’d never taken a chance to dash as quickly as last night. As soon as the candles were set around the house and you could tell your father had maybe one glass too many of Scotch, judging by his hands venturing way far South on her mother’s back right where you could <em>both </em>see them, you excused yourself. You ran for your old room skipping two steps at a time, and neither your father nor her mother seemed to really care about you.</p><p>Or Anna.</p><p>You trace the outline of her ear, fighting a smile when you see one bloom slowly on her innocent sleepy face. You lean down again to kiss her temple, and when you spot a more wakeful reaction–that cute little scrunch of her nose that almost sends you reeling right back into last night, you whisper her name softly.</p><p>She followed you shortly. You couldn’t hear her footsteps in the carpeted corridor, so her knocking on the door actually made you jump. That weird, childish knock she always did, as if thinking it would somehow excuse her invading your privacy–but at least you could tell it was her. You called out for her to come in, and she did with a candle, something you forgot to even think about as you ran from the creepy scene downstairs.</p><p><em>I don’t wanna sit there with them,</em> she said, and while you found it perfectly reasonable, you also opened your mouth to say ‘then go to your room,’ but she continued before you had the chance to–<em>but I don’t wanna go to sleep yet, either.</em></p><p>So you patted the spot next to you on the bed and she looked absolutely relieved for a second, before closing your door and quickly making her way over. She placed the candle on your bedside table, right next to where your lamp was, and you briefly wondered if you shouldn’t maybe push it farther away from the very flammable shade.</p><p>She sat down with her bare thigh touching yours, and even through your jeans you could feel the overwhelming warmth of her skin. In the dark, the candle’s flame made her eyes shine with amber.</p><p>You didn’t talk, not really. There were some completely meaningless words exchanged more out of the need to break the silence every now and then, and you were so grateful for the howl of the blizzard that filled in for your part. You weren’t really interested in her year, or her friends, definitely not interested in the fact she recently broke up with some boyfriend you never even knew she had in the first place. What you <em>were</em> interested in was the way her shoulder brushed against yours, the gentle, mindless caress of her fingers on your knee and the way she almost molded into you the longer she went on, and the colder it got in the house with the thermostat dead and your dad apparently too drunk to even think of manually setting the heat.</p><p>Your arm was around her the moment she shivered, hand resting almost possessively on her shorts-clad hip and she nested into your side like a kitten searching for heat and contact from its beloved human. Her breasts were brushing your ribs as she kept going, both about the story of how she recently lost her phone and had to get a new one and <em>oh, could you actually give me your number? Maybe I could call sometimes </em>and in a physical sense, her legs slung over yours as she almost climbed into your lap.</p><p>A particularly strong gust of wind seemed to almost take your window out of its frame as her lips finally crashed with yours, something you <em>both</em> dreaded and yet waited for this entire time.</p><p>It was what it was.</p><p>You take a strand of her messy hair and tickle her nose, and she scrunches it again and follows with a half hearted swat of her hand aimed somewhere in your general direction. You easily avoid it, being awake and all, and mercilessly continue with the tickling until you see one of her eyes flutter open.</p><p>“Morning,” you say, and you’re really unhappy to hear the happiness in your voice. “It’s time.”</p><p>She takes a few breaths, a few blinks, a few heartbeats that you can actually see shaking her startled chest before her eyes finally focus and she looks up at you.</p><p>“Can I stay?” she says instead of a greeting, and her voice is so small and sad that it almost breaks your heart, as much as you hate to admit it to yourself. “Just a few minutes?”</p><p>You shake your head and point to the window, and she follows with her gaze to note the ever brightening light of the morning through the frosty remains of what will probably soon be called the Snowstorm of the Century in this neck of the woods. “They’re gonna be up soon,” you say, quietly, as if bringing them up like this could actually instantly summon them to your room. “If they aren’t already, for that matter. I can’t have you here.”</p><p>“They’re probably hungover as hell,” she mutters, burrowing deeper in your sheets, one of her smooth, soft legs finding its way to tangle with yours. “Your dad was just about to open another bottle, and my mom was going through a fresh full of one of those ridiculously huge wine glasses you got her last year when I was going up.”</p><p>When she was going up. The very <em>moment </em>you heard her childish knocking on the door you knew exactly how the night would play out. It’s not the first Christmas you came back to this house, this family you vowed to never invade again, and it’s not the last if your resolve remains as weak as it’s always been.</p><p>The very moment her lips were on yours and your hand was on her ass and your guilt was pushed to the back of your mind you knew she would end up naked in your sheets like each year before, gripping your old favorite pillow and biting into her own forearm as you worked your way around her <em>painfully </em>familiar, but foreign body. This year’s blizzard was your silent, but oh so loud blessing as it hid her exceptionally lustful moans and your own barely contained gasps.</p><p>Had it not been for the howling wind and your father’s inability to stay away from a drink, this year you really might have gotten into some serious trouble.</p><p>“If they come here for any reason– or even if they see you leave my room we’re fucked, Anna, and you knew that–”</p><p>“It was cold,” you barely make out what she says from the little nest of blankets she made around her face and you pull it away enough to see her eyes sparkle back at you. “And it was dark. And I was so, so, <em>so </em>scared, Elsa, I needed my <em>big sister</em>.”</p><p>The way she says it makes you feel so many things at once, but shame and dumb lust are definitely the strongest of them all. You blame the porn industry, Game of Thrones and weird things you might have read <em>by complete accident </em>online, but deep inside you know all of these have one common factor that’s the real culprit of these sick fantasies.</p><p>You. You were the one to look at your step-sister in a bathing suit when you were barely an adult and she still very much wasn’t and thought of <em>very </em>bad stuff. You were the one to purposefully shut her out, unable to look at her anymore without the invading thoughts, you were the one who ran away to a different state as soon as you were out of high school, you were the one who tried to cut all ties with your family, blood-related or otherwise and play it as the stupid cliche of hating your father’s wonderful, gentle human being of a new wife.</p><p>You were the one who kept breaking your own boundaries by coming back to them.</p><p>You were the one who kissed her the first Christmas her mother allowed her to have wine, <em>since she’s already had her eighteenth birthday! Where I come from it would be completely legal!</em></p><p>Then she kissed you back. And you kissed her fiercer. And her hands were in your pants before you even processed through the initial kiss.</p><p>She wanted it. But you were the one who gave her the idea.</p><p>You distinctly remember your step-mother’s words about it being <em>completely legal! </em>ringing through your head, and the bitter realization that where <em>you</em> came from neither of these things was.</p><p>“I don’t think it’s as solid of an excuse as you imagine,” you admit quietly, running your fingers through her hair again because you are <strike>a deviant</strike> much more sappy than you usually like to take credit for and you can’t keep your hands to yourself. “You’re a little too old for the ‘afraid of the storm’ excuse.”</p><p>“I didn’t know fears expired at twenty-two.”</p><p>You snicker, but your heart’s not really in it. She seems satisfied with the reaction, though, and she turns over to lie on her back, then puts her arms out to invite you in.</p><p>You look at her neck. Her chest, rising and falling slowly with her steady breaths. Her breasts, marred with red marks from the wrinkled sheets she lied on and a very <em>different </em>kind of red marks, a reminder of last night’s storms–the blizzard outside, and the category 5 tropical cyclone in your bedroom.</p><p>You look lower, at her soft, exposed belly, as if you’re the apex predator of this room looking at an unsuspecting prey–one that instead of running away from you only lures you in, too trusting for her own good.</p><p>But you give in. You let yourself be pulled onto her, your own bare, cold chest pressing firmly against her blazing hot skin.</p><p>“Let me stay.”</p><p>It’s not a request, not really. She knows the power she has over you, the way she can bend you to her will even if both of you pretend she can’t, and she knows it’s only for today. That in a few hours you’ll be back in your car, speeding down the highway until the roar of the wind and a playlist you’re not even really listening to are enough to drown out your thoughts.</p><p>The next she hears anything from you will be the pathetic birthday card you send. The next she sees you–next Christmas, at the earliest, <strike>if</strike> when you break your promise to yourself.</p><p>So you give in, again. You nod, with your forehead against hers, and she captures your lips right after. A ray of sun hits a particularly prismatic piece of frost on the window and it splits into a rainbow right over Anna’s shut eyes and for a moment–</p><p>–your heart soars.</p><p>–she’s yours.</p><p>–you’re hers.</p><p>–what you’re doing is right.</p><p>You close your eyes and try to keep all these thoughts in, until they manage to dogpile on your guilt and the heavy reality of your father and her mother being just a few steps away in their own bedroom. Her lips part and your tongue dashes forward and you’re in the perfect bubble for just a few more minutes, maybe an hour if they drained the entire bottle yesterday.</p><p>You <strike>don’t even</strike> actually like having her around. It hurts way too much when you have to let her go to actually be worth this one night of bliss.</p><p>Your hand roams down her side, a feathery touch over her ribcage that makes her shiver as goosebumps follow in your wake, down the dip of her waist and over the gentle slope of her hipbone until you reach the point of absolute no return, the point at which you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself even if you heard your father’s voice calling out your name, or her mother shouting <em>have you seen Anna?</em></p><p>What you hear, though, aside from Anna’s heavy breathing is a rustle outside, and lazily you open one eye to see the room going darker as a new blizzard picks up outside to match the hurricane brewing in that tight, dark space where your heartbeats collide against each other.</p><p>You <strike>don’t</strike> love her. Not in the way you’re supposed to.</p>
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